There was a time when my body felt like it no longer belonged to me.
Chemotherapy and radiation had weakened me in ways I hadn’t expected. My legs felt heavy and unreliable. My breath shortened too quickly. Even standing for more than a few minutes made me dizzy. Walking for five minutes wasn’t just hard — it felt out of reach.
At every visit, my doctor would look at me and say the same thing.
“You have to walk. If you want to live, you have to walk.”
It sounded so simple when he said it. Just walk. As if it were a small thing. But during cancer treatment, even small things can feel enormous.
My sister decided she would make sure I tried.
She drove me to Collins Park in Georgia, where tall trees stretch high above the path and their branches weave together thick enough to block most of the summer sun. Even on the hottest afternoons, the trail stays shaded and cool. It feels like stepping into a quiet green tunnel.
The first day we went, she parked the car close to the entrance. I stepped out slowly and tried to make my way toward the beginning of the trail. It wasn’t far. Just a short walk from the parking lot.
I didn’t make it very far.
By the time I reached the entrance, my breathing was uneven. My head felt light. My legs trembled. I had to sit down right there, before I had even taken a real step on the path.
The next day, she brought me back.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
At first, I counted minutes because I couldn’t count on my strength.
After one week, I could walk twelve minutes.
The following week, eighteen.
A month later, thirty.
Some days I shuffled. Some days I rested halfway. Some days I felt frustrated. But we kept returning to the same park, the same shaded trail, the same quiet stretch of trees.
Eventually, I began going on my own after dropping my children off at school. The walk became part of my mornings. The trees changed with the seasons — bright green in summer, gold and red in fall, bare and still in winter — but the path stayed the same.
The minutes kept adding themselves together.
Thirty became forty.
Forty became sixty.
It has now been twenty years.
For twenty years, I have walked one hour every single day.
The same path.
The same rhythm.
Step after step.
Keep Going
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